The Wind That Shakes The Barley
by Ananthous
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a place called Mindoir. And then, there wasn't.


_It's been a while, hasn't it? This is just a one-shot, short and bittersweet. Please note: violent. Really. I'll have some mild ranting to do at the end. Kaidan Alenko, your friend and mine, is really only a tiny part of this fic – if you're looking for some real Shenko, you won't find it here. And yes, the title is an _incredibly_ subtle allusion to the Robert Joyce poem of the same name._

The Wind That Shakes The Barley

The high sun was making her sleepy, filtering through the tree's topmost branches and heating her shoulders to just this side of uncomfortably warm. The only thing keeping her from slipping the rest of the way into a blissful nap was a mild tug of guilt, still sending the occasional twinge through her chest despite the warm air and gently swaying leaves. There was some sort of insect droning behind her right ear; it should have started her awake, conjuring images of radioactive stingers and sharp-edged translucent wings, but the gentle hum sounded too much like the soothing songs murmured in the town nursery to be threatening. It was a hazy-lazy-leafy day, and there was plenty to brood on but nothing to worry about.

She knew that she was too old to be skipping out on chores like this, and that she'd catch hell when she finally dragged herself back home. So be it. It wasn't the extra weeding and mucking she knew lay in her future that bothered her; it was the disappointed burr her father affected when she'd done something he didn't like. It had seemed like such a lark to disappear over the fence instead of staying to help with the haying, but the cozy peace of the orchard provided no comfort now. She groaned under her breath. She was doing it again. Why did she bother to face punishment for stolen time that she couldn't even let herself enjoy?

Her father, she thought, understood it better than she did. Last week, when she'd camped out in the cellar and read instead of taking her turn at the day care, he'd said that she was feeling the confines of their colony and suffering for it. Of course, he'd also said that she needed to deal with it herself, and that no amount of personal misery excused shirking one's duties. Lectures about doing what was right and what was necessary, in that order, seemed to be about all he had to say to her anymore. Other than that, their interactions had peeled away to the bare bones of searching looks and tightly clenched jaws. But while he seemed utterly unsympathetic, he at least realized that there was a reason for the way she was acting lately. That put him out ahead of her; she never knew what was going to come out of her mouth, or at what volume. The stupidest, most trivial things would drive her to a sudden rage, and everything that she said seemed to insult somebody.

She sat up, feeling sulky now. Of course she was bored here, out at the ends of the galaxy. There was nothing to do. She hadn't met a new person in four years. And the people she did know, the same handful of people that she was always stuck with, treated her like a freak. Her mother always said that some of them were jealous of her biotics, and that some of them were frightened by what they didn't understand. That was usually when her father would pipe up and mention that some folks were just worried that she'd lose her temper in a fit of moody pique and blow the whole damn colony up. Arthur, of course, would just sit there, like the lump he was. She rolled her eyes, and swung her legs out over the branch she'd been lying on. And they wondered where all her cutting sarcasm came from. She dropped to the ground, the sudden jolt traveling up her legs and clacking her teeth together. Now thoroughly awake, she knew she should head back before it got too late. If there was still enough daylight for her to get in a decent amount of work, her father might go a bit easier on her.

She set off in the direction of her family's fields, knowing she was lying to herself. Nothing was going to temper her father's annoyance at this point. She'd be better served spending the walk getting into a properly humble frame of mind, maybe practicing her sincerely chastened look. That hadn't fooled the old man in years, but it was probably worth a shot. Hell, maybe she should just go for broke. Her entire family knew that she was chafing here – why not let her go to university somewhere else? She was only sixteen, sure, but she'd finished what was laughably referred to as high school in this dump two years ago. Since then, she'd been taking what courses she could over the net, hoping that it might all add up to enough someday that she wouldn't have to spend her entire life growing lentils and rewiring ancient farm equipment with nothing more than omni-gel and hope. And being shunned, most likely.

Her thoughts turned bitter again; if she were going to be honest with herself, she hadn't fled the farm today just for the opportunity to brood in private. The colonists all helped each other with the big tasks of the season, and she hadn't been exactly thrilled with the list of names her mother had mentioned at breakfast. Spending most of the day trying not to sneeze herself to death in North Field was one thing; doing so while also ignoring repetitive cracks from half-wits about her "mind powers" was quite another. And then, next week, she'd be expected to head out in her family's stead and fix those very same idiots' own problems. Nothing like spending hours on someone's water filtration system, only to be told that it took her special, radioactive view of things to understand the piping. Which was considered a compliment.

She was halfway home now, and the thought that she'd give just about anything to escape what increasingly felt like a dusty, planet-sized cage threaded silkily through her mind. She snorted. Her father had told her, in his last disappointed sermon, that she had to adjust her expectations to her horizons. It seemed to her a ridiculous notion, entirely outdated. Why leave Earth only to be bound by planetary limitations? Another flare of guilt clenched her gut as she remembered that she had vented her anger by accusing him of weighing her down with his own regrets. And a flash of embarrassment followed, prompted by the overly-earnest talk that her mother had given her afterward, essentially confirming her rash original read of the situation. She hadn't yet apologized to her father, or thanked her mother. The omission ate at her. They were driving her absolutely crazy, of course, but they meant well. But there wouldn't be anyway to fix it today, not with a fresh offense to be dealt with.

She'd only just realized that she had slowed to a crawl, quietly hoping that she'd never actually reach her destination, when a flash of light somehow caught her eye. She stopped and looked up, craning her neck to see as high as she could. And suddenly stumbled backwards, shading her eyes from the brilliant glow. Ships were approaching, at great speed, a number of them. It was like a year's worth of supply runs in a moment, almost too much sensory input for her to process at once. The blurs of white light were separating: there were ships behind, something else ahead. And then, the world was on fire. She saw the flare first, and then the dull thudding sound came and the shock wave that knocked her to the ground. She was coughing, and there was grit in her mouth, stuck between her teeth. Instinctively, she rolled, protecting her head and stomach. Seconds passed before she could force her muscles out of their protective clench. As she struggled to her feet, she stared, uncomprehending, in the direction of everything she'd ever known. Smoke. Flame. And those hovering shapes, menacing and metallic.

She broke into a run.

At a flat sprint, she could hit her family's property line in less than fifteen minutes. That time passed, surely, but it wasn't accounted for to her; she began to run, and then she was there. Damp with sweat and struggling to breathe to be sure, but having somehow stepped through the distance instantaneously. The new hay bales, half strapped and stacked, were all on fire. The dusky scent permeated her clothes; the heavy smoke wreathed her ankles. She'd been gone for hours, but these were obviously changes from the last few minutes. The hay was half ash already; the crops were turning black in the inferno, twisting and roasting and puffing in the heat. And, as she forced herself to turn her head in the necessary direction and then to pry her eyes open, she saw her family's home burned like a tinder box knocked into the fire pit by a careless child.

There were screams in the air, mingling with the choking smoke and the harsh reports of weapons fire. From somewhere, a sense of self-preservation returned to her. She had to get to the house, but she wouldn't be any use if she got killed first. Her family lived on the northern edge of the colony, and despite the obvious wreckage out here it seemed that the real action was going on closer to town. With the fields on fire, there wasn't much cover between her and the barn – nothing for it, she just put her head down and ran for the walls. And then edged along them, trying to ignore the warnings that her mind was screaming, about the obvious threat of collapse and the ominous heat streaming off the wood. She could feel her skin turning pink and the hair singeing off her arms, tiny hot pin pricks to keep her focused. Once around the corner, it would only take a few strides to make it across the yard between the barn and the house, assuming the area was clear. She stood at the corner, took a deep breath, and darted around to the front of the building.

And the area was not clear. The wide doors were swung half open, forming a open-ended triangle, and at the apex lay the body of a man. Nineteen, clumsy, quiet from shyness, not a sullen attitude. Kind and hard-working, her opposite in almost every way. Her brother, Arthur. His neck twisted at a strange angle, something gleaming at the base of his skull. She edged closer, discretion forgotten. There was almost no blood. He didn't look dead, just wrong. His eyes were wide open, staring left and right and up, rolling rapidly like he was having a seizure without actually moving. His body lay still, but his jaw clenched convulsively. The thing is his neck was metallic and sticking out a bit, like a poorly fitted machine part. It wasn't shrapnel; there was no more metal in his body or on the ground. She reached a hand toward him, but couldn't bring herself to touch this thing that, somehow, she knew only used to be Arthur. What if she made it worse? _Could_ she make this worse, whatever this was?

Her father. She had to find her father, he would know what to do. He had to know, because she sure as hell didn't. The house was close, he would be there, because her mother would have been there, and he would never let anything happen to her mother. Yes. Of course. The side door was ahead; the fence was burning and the door was scorched and dangling off its hinges. She went through anyway. Everything was on fire anyway, so this truly didn't seem any worse than being outside. The kitchen was full of smoke, like the one time she'd tried to cook years ago. Her mother had come in then, gently taken the spatula from her hand, and fixed everything. That probably wouldn't be happening this time. Her mother was lying face down on the tiled floor, clothes and skin shredded, in a still-expanding pool of blood. She stared, willing the scene in front of her to make sense. Her mother was there, it wasn't hard to guess at the things that had been done to her, and her father was nowhere to be seen.

Her brother was in some sort of mental limbo. Her home and her barn and her fields and her crops were all on fire. Her house was burning down around her and, from the sounds of things, her neighbors were being slaughtered in the town square. But none of that seemed impossible when she stared at her mother left to suffer and die alone. That was simply beyond her. And then, somehow, through the buzzing that was growing louder as she stared, she heard the barking from outside. Unsteadily, she stumbled up to her feet. She realized that she'd been on her knees by her mother's body, blood soaking into her pants, repeatedly smoothing the dead woman's hair. The barking, though. It was important, she knew this. Through the kitchen doorway into the front room, furniture tossed about and smashed, out the front door to the little garden off the main road from town.

And that's where her father was. And that's where the varren were. And that's where her father was lying, still seemingly trying to crawl his way up the path to the house, his fingers scrabbling at air, as the varren ate his legs. He wasn't making a sound. The varren were not so polite. And there was a high-pitched noise that she couldn't identify, and it was rising, and it was suddenly her. And she was screaming. And her father, his head jerked around and he was looking at her, right into her thoughts with his way. And he was screaming now, not for himself but for her. For the last of his line. And the blow came from behind, and she crumpled to the ground.

A solid hit, no doubt, and colors receded for a second. Her chin hit the packed dirt with surprising force and blood filled her mouth, drawn from her own tongue by her own teeth. There was heavy breathing behind her, and her arm flung out of its own accord, blue light gathering and expelling and she heard a grunt. She'd tossed whatever had hit her a few feet and had a very temporary advantage. Up, said her head. Up and finish it. On her feet somehow, making a desperate sweep of the grass for a weapon. And the slightly-dented shovel was at her feet, caked with blood. Hers, and her father's. And soon, a bit more. The varren had made it obvious who she was dealing with, but it was still a shock to see the batarian struggling back upright at the end of the garden. He barked something at her, but she couldn't hear him over her own desperation. She charged, and swung blind, and the handle trembled with the force of connection. The crack was incredibly satisfying.

The batarian did not rise again, and the shovel fell from her numb fingers. The heat of the moment faded, and she looked toward her father. The varren should have joined the fight, but they were still too occupied. And her father had mercifully stopped moving. There was only meat now. And she could do nothing for any of them, except try and not meet the same fate. So she ran, and she hid, and she knew even then that she would regret it forever.

Through the front garden and across the dirt street to the next farm down, 50 meters or so. Normally not enough distance for her, now impossibly long to run. Her limbs were heavy and her vision had never quite cleared after that blow to the head. The Zuwani farm was burning slowly like her own; the body of an old school-mate was folded up on the doorstep. But she wasn't aiming for the house. There was a tall, leafy tree in the side yard and she ducked behind the sturdy trunk before grabbing the lowest branch and pulling herself up. The boughs got more slender and less reliable as she went up, but she climbed as high as she dared. When there were only twigs that would never support her weight above her, she finally stopped. She stared at the blanket of green in front of her, knowing that reality was just beyond. She already knew herself for a coward, hiding in a tree while her neighbors died. She couldn't be afraid to even look. So she leaned forward and parted the leaves, gazing down the wide street and toward the main town square.

There was an endless sea of batarians, loading everyone she'd ever known into cages. The people she'd despised for their casual dismissal of her were there, along with the few who'd given her a chance. Their eyes were dull. Metal glinted just above their collars, and she suddenly knew the thing that had scrambled her brother's mind to be a slave jack. The pretty and sturdy women, the older children, and the slimmer men were on their feet, shuffling toward the cells. The rest were littered about the streets. There were still skirmishes ongoing, but they were of no concern to the main body of batarians. They knew they'd won, and let their underlings take the final charges. It hadn't been much of a fight for armed mercenaries, she was sure. There were a few retired military in the colony, but most of them were just farmers and engineers, people with romantic ideas about new frontiers and blazing trails. There wasn't any large game to hunt, so there were few high-caliber weapons to be had. Based on the worn armor she could see on the batarians, the group that had attacked them wasn't anything special. But this had probably been their easiest payday in years.

What was she doing up in this tree? Obviously, there was nothing she could do against a group this size; it had been pure adrenaline and luck that had gotten her away from the lone batarian at her farm. Well, and the biotics that were so disparaged by her neighbors. So, realistically, she couldn't help anyone. But why bother hiding? Once the slaver scum departed with their haul, there would be nothing left here but corpses and burned-out buildings. They weren't due for a provision run for another six weeks. And her family was dead. Even if she hung on long enough to meet the surely-horrified crew of the supply ship, what would she say when they asked her where she had to go? The places that she'd wanted to see suddenly seemed impossibly far away. How could she strike out, knowing that there was nothing left behind her, nowhere to return if it turned out that wasn't quite so smart as she thought. And how could she be alive, the worst of them all, when her family was gone. She didn't have her mother's kindness, her father's practicality, or her brother's generosity. All she had was her anger.

Maybe the best thing would be to use her only gifts, then. Her rage would drag her out of her tree, and her biotics would give her enough of an edge to take a few of the batarians down with her. She'd gotten one already. If she could get just three more, she could wipe out the cowardice of running and hiding in the first place. Two more, even – she didn't need one for her, just one each for her family. And then, she wouldn't have to worry about surviving on scraps until a friendly face arrived. She wouldn't have to worry about anything.

First, she'd have to wait until dark. Going now would be the fast, sloppy kind of suicide. She squinted up at the patches of sky she could see through the canopy; a few hours yet until dusk, when the shadows might provide enough cover. A couple more until full dark. Who knew if the batarians would even wait around that long – they had to be aware that the colony had multiple ways to alert the Alliance of an attack, and that despite the element of surprise, surely someone had been in a position to call for help before they were captured or killed. That thought actually brought her up short. She wouldn't have to wait for the supply ship. Actual marines should be on their way already. If there was a ship anywhere near, they could be here before the batarians took off, they might actually be able to help. It was too late for her family, but there were children down there. There were still pieces of a child up here.

Time passed slowly. The final altercations ended, and the last survivors were rounded up. Most were loaded into the increasingly crowded cages. A few, those that had resisted most stubbornly, were executed. A squad of batarians went out to loot what supplies they hadn't already burned. The rest stayed by their ships, loading crates and cages with equal indifference. They'd set up a loose perimeter, but they clearly expected no trouble. As the daylight faded, they settled down to eat. Their varren gnawed lazily at the corpses strewn about the square. They didn't seem to be in any rush to leave; it didn't make any sense. What were they waiting for?

It wasn't until complete darkness had fallen, about nine o'clock, when the batarians began to prepare for company. Their ships were already arranged in a tight oval, but now they set up crates and shields in the spaces between to act as firing platforms. The mercenaries checked their armor and the squad leaders distributed weaponry that, even at this distance, she could tell far exceeded in quality and stopping power the arms they'd used to storm the colony. If they were so eager for a fight with the Alliance, why hadn't they just attacked a base or a ship? Drawing your enemy in made some sense from a tactical perspective, but they hadn't chosen a particularly defensible area to make their stand. They were ringed by their ships, sure, but they were camped in the open area where the colony held meetings and fairs. The buildings that might have provided some coverage were smoldering wrecks, half-collapsed. Big guns or no, they were setting themselves up to be slaughtered.

She had to get closer, try to figure out what they were playing at. This couldn't be as simple as it seemed. For the second time that day, she slid off the sturdy branch of a tree and hit the packed earth beneath with her heart in her throat. It wasn't too far to the square, but the batarians had set up enough lamp stands that it was almost as light as day in the center of their camp. The glow fell off quickly outside their ring, but getting near enough to learn anything would be to risk discovery. She stayed low, sheltering behind smoking houses. The air was thick and hard to breathe, but it also provided a bit of cover. When she got to the Decour house, the last before the open area of the square, she knew she couldn't get any closer without being seen. And she was still too far away to hear what they were saying to each other, although it was doubtful she would have been able to understand them anyway. Universal translators were expensive, and only the colony leaders had them. Which was a point, wasn't it – Michel Decour had been a pretty important man. And he was lying on his back not three meters away.

She looked at the body, cringing. There was nothing for it. This was no time to be squeamish; she'd killed someone not six hours ago, there was no logic to a fear of touching the dead now. Mr. Decour hadn't been the friendliest man, but he hadn't deserved to die in his front yard, likely defending his family from slavers. He wouldn't begrudge her one of his possessions now. And so she squared her shoulders and knelt next to the man's head, gently turning his chin away. His earpiece was there, sticky with blood, and she pulled it away after untangling it from his longish hair. She brushed it off as best she could, and then gave it a wipe on her shirt. Shuddering slightly, she tucked the clip over her own ear and seated the tiny microphone. Now, if she could actually get within range, she might be able to find something out. That was its own problem. There was a squat, scrubby bush just past the Decour's fence line, and she hunkered down behind it. From here, she could see very well, but all she could hear was the occasional squabble between a pair of varren. But as she surveyed the batarian's setup, the details now much clearer, she realized that she didn't need to hear them to see their plan.

They were waiting for the Alliance backup to arrive, but not for a fight. The marines would be marching right into a trap. Not a conventional one, one they'd almost certainly leave alive, but a trap nonetheless. And the hope that she wouldn't have admitted to even having sputtered out, and she was amazed to discover that she had yet possessed something that the batarians could take from her.

She stayed behind that prickly bush, legs cramping and eyes stinging in the smoke, until the sky was just starting to shade lighter. Four or so in the morning, and the cavalry finally arrived. There had to be a carrier up there somewhere, because Alliance ground troops were approaching from two directions. Had she fallen asleep? How was this happening so quickly? The batarians were not ducking down behind their barricades as you might expect. They stood in clusters by their ships, seemingly unconcerned about the approaching enemies. The two squads of marines slowed as they neared the batarians' position, likely confused by the lack of response. They should have been taking fire by now, but something was clearly off. Figuring that being spotted wasn't much of an issue now, she slipped out from behind her bush and hobbled on half-asleep limbs to the edge of the square. There was a lamppost there at the corner, with a waste bin at its base. It provided little cover, but no one from either side had even glanced in her direction so far.

The hatch of the largest parked ship opened, and a batarian in gleaming armor emerged. He strode toward the front of the camp, stopping just behind the outer row of crates that formed their barricade. He surveyed the mass of heavily armed soldiers arrayed along the path that ran around the square. Seemingly unconcerned, he turned back towards his own men. Lazily, glancing back over his shoulder, he asked, "Is there something you wanted, Humans?"

His question was met with stunned silence. This was not what the marines had expected. The soldiers at the heads of the two squads glanced at each other, and one stood forward. "We demand to know what has happened to the survivors of this unprovoked massacre. We demand their immediate return, and then we can determine the appropriate response to what you have done here."

The batarian leader seemed amused by this response. "You demand? I deny. We will be keeping our slaves, as we have gone to some trouble to get them. Fair profit for hard work. And if you think this was unprovoked, Human, then you are sadly misinformed as to recent history. We are not interested in you, though. And we are behind schedule, it took you so very long to get here. You will return to your ship, and we will leave with our property. Then you may do whatever you wish with the remains of this ragged place."

The Alliance squad leader was incredulous. "If you return our people, we will take you back to Council space to face justice. If you do not, we will kill you here and now."

And now, the batarian was in his glory. "Will you, Human, you will fire upon us? I know you have only two eyes, but surely they give you vision enough to see what surrounds you?"

And now the marines realized what she had seen last night. The crates that were stacked throughout the square, that separated the soldiers from their targets and that were densely packed in amongst the ships that obviously contained the captured colonists, were covered in explosive and flammable symbols. A batarian with a crowbar walked forward and pried the lid of a crate directly in front of the Alliance leader, demonstrating that it was full to the top with explosive rounds.

"Do you see now, Human? If you kill us, you kill your colonists. You likely kill yourselves as well, if you engage us here and now. You have only this choice: let us leave with our slaves, or kill them along with us."

She turned away at this. She knew what would happen now. The Alliance spokesman would try to negotiate, but find himself in way over his head. There would be some heated back-and-fourth between the two squad leaders, but they would ultimately be unable to bring themselves to risk killing the prisoners. The batarians would be allowed to leave, and the marines would comfort themselves that they would be able to go after them, that they would surely rescue the colonists before too much happened to them. But the marines hadn't seen the dead looks in the eyes of the captured. They were already suffering. And who would pay for the dead, for her family, for Mr. Decour, for all of them? She could hear it all happening behind her, the arguing, the rationalizing, the vaguely sullen sound of unwilling underlings following orders and marching away from the people they were sworn to protect.

She stood up then. There was no point in hiding anymore; this wasn't a world that she wanted to live in. And one of the batarians noticed her standing there, and nudged the one beside him. And it passed down the line until the leader had his eyes on her. There was triumph on his face and in his bearing; he had proven that the might of the Alliance was no match for his own cunning. And as he stared at her, she saw that she was the last piece that he needed to make his victory complete. The soldiers would report the incident, and it would spread across the extranet and breed fear and slow expansion, as intended. But she would live it, she would carry it inside her, forever. "You, girl," he said, gesturing imperiously. "Remember this. Remember that humanity is nothing before us. You will all be swept away."

And he turned, and he boarded his ship. And his men fell in behind him, and she backed away from the square, some small part of her still insisting on staying alive. The largest ship took off first, and the rest followed, and in only minutes the town was quiet and empty and she was alone.

When the Alliance marines returned to count the dead, they found her curled up in the scorch marks on the town green where the largest ship had sat, back pressed against one of the abandoned crates of explosives. Her skin was badly burned and she stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge them at first. When an exasperated soldier smacked her across the face, she finally told them her name in a monotone. No, her family was dead. No, she had nowhere to go. No, there was no one else left.

They gave her some food and took her aboard the SSV Einstein so that she could clean up. They said they'd take her to the nearest base, and from there she could get to Earth. There were probably some relatives that could take her in, or something. She merely nodded to everything they said, too weary to speak. They gave her a bunk in the med bay, but as soon as they left her alone she took her blanket and retreated to a supply closet in the back. She needed to think, and their chattering and their prodding and their goddamn pity made it impossibly loud inside her head. She wouldn't go to Earth, she knew that. If there were any long-lost family, with them was the last place she needed to be. She would stay at the base. She would join the Alliance. She couldn't be like her mother, her father, or her brother. They would not live on through her, no matter how she might wish it. So, she would be something else.

The person she could have been was gone. But the moment that she had fought back, her one tiny victory, had shown her what she could be now. She could be the one with the conviction to keep this from happening again.

She could be whatever it took...

"Shepard!" The raw whisper sounded just behind my ear. Alenko. I snapped to attention and wondered, just for a second, if he would hate me for what I was about to do. But as I felt my resolve trembling under the thought, I shook it off. He wouldn't understand, no matter what. To even consider it was to waste valuable seconds.

Balak was standing on the platform at the top of the stairs. He expected me to let him go in exchange for the hostages, that much was obvious. I guess my benevolent reputation had preceded me. I'm the good guy, right? I wear a white hat, I ride for the greater good, my phasers are always set to stun. I stared at the four-eyed son of a bitch, and tried to talk myself down. He was rambling on, whining about human aggression, about the Council's favoritism. White noise. And all I could see was the blank look in my brother's eyes as my childhood died. The tatters of fabric around my mother's waist. Balak's pathetic rationalizations were drowned out by the screams of my father, drowning in his own blood.

He stopped talking in confusion as I replied, in a voice far too low for him to hear. "Cowardly humans, too feeble to speak up," Balak sneered. He shared a superior glance with his crew. And I squared my shoulders. "I said. Fuck. You."

At least he looked surprised. At least he actually paused for a second, as though it suddenly occurred to him that he just might have miscalculated. "I'm leaving, Shepard. And if you're fast enough, you might still save the hostages. And if you're really lucky, someone else will have to deal with it when I get my revenge." Poor bastard. He actually believes that I'm letting him leave.

"No. You're not going anywhere. Certainly not off into the aether to attack more human colonies and ruin more lives. You're dying right here. Right now. Your arguments are meaningless. They're all lies, anyway. I'll see you dead at my feet, no matter the cost."

I hear a half-swallowed gasp behind me. Alenko, again. A bit soft, sometimes. Silence from the other side. Vakarian. Follows orders, always, but likely on my side anyway. Not that either of them matter right now. Nothing matters, nothing, only shutting that smug bastard's mouth. With a bullet or six, preferably.

"I'm arming the charges! If you come after me, your precious compatriots will all die! I will escape!" He sounds truly desperate now. I think reality might finally be sinking in. My pistol has never felt heavier in my hand. And I am suddenly charging. I storm up the stairs, and I can see every individual shot passing me. The sky splits with possibility, and potential outcomes ricochet off the wall behind me. Each pull of my trigger is ponderous; I can trace the course of each and every molten synapse, firing in sequence to send the beautiful blue elevation out of my hand, graceful arcing death at my fingertips.

As the decking trembles beneath my feet under the force of a nearby explosion, I send a blessed bullet directly through a tablespoon of jelly that was once an eye. A figure crumples, and I relive my very first moment of empty triumph, carrying nothing but a shovel and a death wish. Nothing will hold me back from this. Like then, the wrong thing is dead and everything is imperfect. Automated turrets are circling the perimeter and a handful of batarian holdouts still remain. I ignore it all, confident in my team. They are too professional to let their opinions get in the way. Vaguely, I can tell that I've taken a shot in my shoulder. My left arm hangs loose, useless, blood draining rapidly. I assume that the stims administered by my armor will keep me on my feet.

I stand over Balak's still form. His face is a mass of blood; it's impossible to distinguish his features. Which is only to the benefit, I think. Ugly bastard like that. Funny. Without his face, he looks just like any batarian. I look down at the corpse, and imagine that I have finally caught up with my own demons.

When Alenko and Vakarian finally pull me away from the body, I've been kicking it for so long that the head is little more than a bloody smear on the platform. The torso is less than intact as well. Vakarian is talking in his level way, trying to play the Standard Me to the Standard Him, it's fucking hilarious. Alenko murmurs something, and messes with the inputs on my armor, and everything goes hazy. Sneaky, that one.

As the world finally fades away, burning and hazy, I can just hear him whispering to me. He tells me it's all right. He tells me that we'll go back to the ship, that no one will blame me, that no one even has to know the real story. Sweetheart. Please.

"It's okay, Shepard. You couldn't help it. And it's over now. It's over. I promise."

_So. My main Shep is a Colonist/Sole Survivor, as you've noticed if you've read my other little pieces. And Bring Down The Sky just brought my game to a screeching halt, almost as bad as the one on Virmire, when I realized I had to bloody end somebody. Whatever my real-life qualities might be, I'm straight light side in my game choices; my Shep though, she's not so thrilled with Batarians, given her family history. It's a genuine flaw, makes her a deeper character – and gave me a bajillion Renegade points that I didn't want if respected in game. So, I did the opposite of the reasonable thing: I went with what _I_ wanted in game, and wrote a fic with the logical choice from my character's point of view. Sorry. You can't have my RPGer card. I need it for when ME3 comes out._


End file.
